


Sensory Input

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is hit with a spell that causes him to temporarily gain some of Castiel's angel-mojo. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensory Input

  
Being a Winchester means you deal with a lot of magic. Sometimes it's good magic - like the tattoos that keep him and Sammy safe from possession, and the sigils carved into their ribs to hide them from angels, both fallen and non. And then, sometimes, it's...not so good. Getting a case of bad luck from a mangy rabbit's foot, for one, or getting turned into an old man by a he-witch, or any number of other things that Dean can remember, but would rather not.

And then there's _weird_ stuff. Like getting turned into an angel.

Okay, so no power on earth can turn a human into an angel - save for God, he assumes. But still, God excluded, there's nothing. But what apparently _can_ happen is a witch can get her hands on the right spell, and the right ingredients, at the right time, all of which combined can initiate a 'transfer of power,' as Castiel had put it. Castiel, who's sitting on Sam's motel bed after the fact and snarfing down a cheeseburger like he's a death row inmate who's been given his last meal. It's nothing like what had happened with Famine - it's..._healthier_. Cas looks like he's actually enjoying the burger, rather than being compelled to eat it.

Dean's eyes feel like they're swimming in static electricity. He stretches out on his own bed and watches Sammy as he pages through some ancient book, all the black lines of power running underneath his skin, gangrenous and _wrong_. But his eyes, when he turns to look at Dean, are normal. Human. Dean takes comfort in that - he thinks they wouldn't be nearly so kind, if Sam were still tripping on demon blood.

"The spell is only temporary," Sam says. His voice grates on Dean's ears - every sound resonates in him. He can hear things that weren't there before - or, more accurately, things that were always there, but he never had the ability to perceive. He can hear _souls_. Can't see them, of course - they're inside people's bodies, and it would take more effort than he can muster up to get past that particular obstacle. But every time someone speaks, or moves, Dean can hear the echoes of what they are.

_This is what Cas sees all the time,_ he realizes, and rolls over to push his face into the pillow, except he can see the factory where the pillow was made, can hear, hazily, all the souls of the hands that touched it, and can see (although distantly) the cotton field where the pillowcase came from. The man who worked the harvester. _Holy shit._ He rolls back over again and stares at the ceiling, trying not to touch anything with his bare hands.

"The disorientation will ebb," Castiel says, once his mouth isn't full. "Once the spell fades, I suspect the transfer of power will reverse. There is no way to tell how quickly, or if it will be..." He hesitates, looking at his empty cheeseburger wrapper like it might answer for him, if he stares at it hard enough. Then he blinks, and comes back, like waking up from sleep. "Difficult. It might be difficult. Dean, how do humans withstand this constant barrage of sensory input? Everything seems...sharper. And more distracting."

"You get used to it," Dean groans, and then, because watching the echoes of some guy in a cotton picker is better than listening to Cas wax poetic about his cheeseburger, he rolls back over and closes his eyes.

~~~

Three days later and the spell hasn't faded yet, but Dean has discovered that the motel manager suspects his wife is having an affair, and she is, except it isn't with the teen who does their newspaper route, it's with her tai chi instructor (whose name is Laura, by the way). He's also learned that the guy in the room next to them is addicted to cocaine and is debating whether or not to tell his mother and check into rehab. Oh, and also, dogs have souls – he saw one out the window, and it looked pretty decent, as far as souls went. Always good to know when the Church is wrong.

Castiel, on the other hand, has discovered the joys of Hawaiian pizza.

And Gabriel has discovered what happened.

Dean knows because he can _feel_ him. It's like being able to feel the vibrations in the railroad tracks, just before a freight train comes roaring by. An incredibly douchey, pompous, height-challenged freight train who just so happens to also be an archangel. Awareness of him screams into Dean's brain – too bright, too strong, too loud, and he covers his eyes with his hands but it doesn't help. It's late, and Sam and Castiel are asleep, and there will be no help from them if Gabriel decides to whisk him away to the bottom of the ocean, or somewhere equally as deadly.

"What did you do to my brother," he hears, soft, and when he carefully uncovers his eyes Dean is surprised to find that he isn't in outer space, or buried under a mountain, or dangling over a volcano. He's just in a room. Granted, it isn't the same room as he was in five minutes ago, but it's structurally similar. It's got four walls, a dresser, a nightstand, a closet, and a bed. A bed that he's laying on, and, beside which, is kneeling an archangel.

"Holy shit," Dean says; there's literally nothing else he can think of to say that isn't just incoherent _sound_. Because, yeah, he'd known Gabriel was an archangel. The guy's been trying to help out (but whether it's due to guilt or an actual desire to do some good, he isn't sure), and it's hard to miss his casual displays of power. Sometimes they reap the benefits (endless supplies of chocolate, to be exact), but more often than not it's just…excessive. Like a magpie collecting shiny bits of trash.

But now Dean can _see_ him. Not just his vessel, but the actual archangel contained inside it. He can see _Gabriel_ \- his halo, like a slice of sunlight radiating out from around his head. It's not really a disc, but more like a band that encircles his forehead. Like a laurel wreath, or a crown. And _fuck_, his _wings_. There's more than two – he'd be hard-pressed to say exactly how many, but there's definitely more than two, all gold and white and streaked with bronze. He fills the room with light, and Dean can hear fucking _music_.

He still smells like chocolate, though, which is…calming. Some things never change.

"Gonna ask you again, Deano," Gabriel says, and his voice is like listening to the refraction of light. He imagines this is what rainbows would sound like, if you could hear them. "What did you _do_ to my _brother_?"

"Nothing," Dean croaks. "_Nothing_. Got hit by some spell. Transfer of power, something like that. Sam says it'll wear off soon."

The light dims, from 'blazing' all the way down to 'banked embers,' and Dean realizes, abruptly, that it's a reflection of Gabriel's mood. He had just seen a pissed-off archangel and lived to tell about it. _Who's awesome_, he thinks. _I'm awesome._

"You're _insane_," Gabriel mutters, but he climbs onto the bed beside Dean, wings blatantly defying the laws of physics and tucking neatly against his sides. Dean can feel the heavy warmth of them pressed against him, like sunbeams.. He can feel them. He can _feel_ them.

"I can see your wings," he says, and his voice is hushed even though he doesn't mean for it to be. Gabriel snorts, and rolls onto his side, staring at him.

"Yeah, and I can see yours. Or rather, Castiel's. Which you _stole_."

"Not on purpose." He has wings? Dean sits up abruptly, craning his neck and trying to see. Everything is eclipsed by the radiance of Gabriel's light, though. His – and this is wild, to realize – his _Grace_. Dean can't see anything but the brief flutter of skin and bone and, maybe, feathers. Dean reaches over his shoulder, trying to _feel_.

"Oh, calm down," Gabriel snorts, and then reaches up, and lays his hand on Dean's shoulder.

It's an explosion of sensation – Dean's spine curves in shock as pleasure so intense it's nearly painful lances across his shoulders, radiating out along nerve endings that he has no idea how to deal with. Something in his back _spreads_, like he's holding his arms out, but his arms are down and his hands are clamped in a death grip on the mattress, and Gabriel is smirking at him, leaning carefully out of the way as…as…

"Oh," Dean says weakly, and watches Gabriel's fingers card over and through his wings. His _wings_. Technically, Castiel's wings, but they're attached to _him_ right now, and it's not quite like Gabriel's jerking him off, but it's close, so close. Every small movement sends sparks shooting off behind Dean's eyes, and his hips jerk up, involuntarily. He goes from 'not even vaguely interested' to 'ready and willing' so fast he's surprised he doesn't sprain his dick – and all the while, Gabriel is sitting there on the bed next to him, grinning and stroking his fingers over feathers that are sort of a light reddish-brown, tipped with black. They're as different from Gabriel's ethereal wings as night is from day.

"Maybe they aren't Castiel's," Gabriel hums, and tugs down on one of Dean's feathers, earning a soft moan and a twitch of his hips. "Baby brother never manifested his wings like _this_. He's more of a traditionalist. You know, pure white, fluffy, all that jazz."

"Manifested," Dean squeaks, and reaches down to grind the heel of his palm against his aching dick. The last time he came in his pants he was fifteen and it had been his first time, and he would like to _keep_ it that way, thanks. Gabriel doesn't stop, though – if anything, his strokes get firmer.

"You didn't think these were real, did you? Well, as real as anything is, I suppose, but more malleable. A representation of mood and rank, and Grace. You're kinda lacking in the 'Grace' department, which is why they aren't shining. Still, they aren't half bad. You look good with them."

Gabriel pauses for a second, and then, before Dean can even register the snap of his fingers, they're positioned differently: Dean is sitting further down the bed, his back to Gabriel's chest and his wings pressed against bare skin, still outstretched, while Gabriel presses his face against the shallow space between Dean's shoulder blades and nuzzles, humming softly.

It feels just as good as Gabriel's hands. Better, even – now he can feel heat and slight moisture from the archangel's breath, and Dean goes to press his hand down harder, only to find that his hand is _no longer alone_. Gabriel has reached around, tucked his hand beneath the waist of Dean's pants, fingers stroking along the edge of his briefs. They tuck lower when Dean notices them, fingers curling beneath his underwear and around the base of his dick. Dean shudders, so overloaded that he can't even make a sound.

"You think that angels can't feel," Gabriel murmurs against his back, and strokes Dean, cock and wings, in slow, easy jerks. "That we're…what, emotionally stunted? Or have no emotions at all? I hope you're re-thinking that, now that you've walked a mile in Castiel's shoes."

Gabriel's laugh is low, filthy. It goes straight to Dean's cock, the traitorous little bastard, and he lifts his hips, every centimeter of skin aching with too much stimulus.

"We feel more than you think we do," Gabriel says, and sucks at the back of Dean's neck, worrying the skin with his teeth. "Just because we can't manifest physically on this plane of existence…doesn't mean we can't be physical _elsewhere_. You probably thought that, because we're sexless, we don't have _sex_, too. Am I right? Course I am. You see, that's the problem with assumptions, Deano."

And then he bows his head lower, shoving his face against the spread-tight feathers and skin of Dean's wings, and he _bites_. Not hard, not nearly enough to break skin (or whatever it is the wings are made of), but Dean can feel the heat and the pressure and the wetness of Gabriel's mouth, and beyond the physicality of his vessel Dean can feel _Gabriel_, his joy and his light, his love for his family (so old, and still so strong), his _Grace_, and Dean's back arches in a perfect bow as Gabriel's hand strokes up and he comes in his pants like he's fifteen again, spunk all over Gabriel's fingers, warm and sticky against his hypersensitive skin. Gabriel's mouth draws away, and the rush of cool air over his wings makes Dean shudder all over again, aftershocks shivering under his skin.

"They make an ass out of you," Dean hears, but when he manages to open his eyes and look, there's nothing. He's alone in his motel bed, with Sam sleeping on the floor and Castiel in the next bed over, and his jeans are sticky and damp, but he's alone, and the echoes of existence are beginning to fade – he can no longer see the farmer with his cotton picker, or the factory, or the resonance of hundreds of souls that have passed through this room.

Dean turns the sheets back, slides himself out of bed, and then heads for the shower.

He wants to see if he can flex his wings again.


End file.
